


Absinthe

by sunaddicted



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: Oswald wanted to smack him hard and rip that jacket off of him.An annoyed huff left his lips as he realised that now he was completely focused on the white shirt that Edward would be wearing underneath, stretched across his chest - subtly muscled and broad and just perfect for possessively rubbing his cheek against it..





	Absinthe

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Oswald rubbing one off as he wonders about Edward's underwear, after he's done bitching about the glittering suit(tm)

_Absinthe_

Oswald slumped on his bed with a grunt, an harsh breath hissing through his gritted teeth when his swollen knee came in contact with the mattress; on the bright side, taking weight off of his twisted ankle felt so fucking fantastic that he could have cried in sheer relief - he didn't, but he had been a little too close to tears for his liking.

Flopping down, Oswald threw an arm over his eyes - just in case tiredness and stress and the throbbing in his leg bested him and he'd end up spilling a couple of tears - and forced himself to just breathe, inhaling deeply through his nose before exhaling through his mouth. It was tedious and unnatural, which was the reason why it always worked so well to empty out his mind: it required some effort to do the breathing exercise right.

Not that it was actually working.

It never worked when he really needed it the most.

Images of Edward's ridiculous glittering suit - seared against his lowered eyelids - restlessly spun at dizzying speed across his mind, making Oswald nauseous as if he had tossed back too much alcohol.

Absinthe as green as Edward's suit.

Oswald hated absinthe - the anise flavour made his tongue curl in pure disgust, while he coughed his lungs out after just a burning sip that melted through his esophagus - and he hated Edward: it was just fair that his mind would make such an association.

God.. He hated that suit: it was a crime against fashion, an abomination.

And to think that he had even tried to teach Edward how to properly dress, making him ditch the grandpa cardigans that did nothing to flatter his figure.

He might have had less than pure intentions when he had dragged Edward to his tailor and dressed him up in the tightest clothes that would fit him - he had never claimed to be a saint.

Oswald wondered whether Edward himself had sewn the sequins to the green shimmering fabric, one by one with that anal precision of his. It wasn't the craziest speculation Oswald's mind had ever given birth to; while it was a monstrosity to look upon, Oswald's expert eyes had picked up on the perfect fit of the jacket over Edward's broad shoulders and the way the trousers seemed to be painted on his long legs - considered his current predicament, Oswald doubted that Edward had managed to snatch a tailor and order a glittering green suit.

It did make sense. Which made it worse because, apparently, Edward had wanted to sparkle so badly that he had taken a needle in hand and squinted for only God knew how many hours at thousands of sequins.

Oswald wanted to smack him hard and rip that jacket off of him.

An annoyed huff left his lips as he realised that now he was completely focused on the white shirt that Edward would be wearing underneath, stretched across his chest - subtly muscled and broad and just perfect for possessively rubbing his cheek against it..

"NO!" He couldn't lust after his enemy - the friend that had betrayed him, tossed everything they had away for an evil blonde and attempted to kill him twice: it was unhealthy.

His libido didn't seem to care much about all that.

Oswald peered down at himself and glared harshly at the erection tenting his trousers, half-heartedly attempting to will it down.

But he hadn't had a good wank in ages - honestly, when he was stressed food was much more attractive than sexual release - and he ached with the need to just let go.

The image of his hands closing over Edward's pert arse to tear the horrid glittering trousers away did nothing to discourage him from taking the problem in hand and enjoying it.

Defeated, Oswald deftly undid his trousers, shivering at the feeling of his own knuckles lightly pressing down the zip and a breathy 'oh' left his lips completely unbidden as he tugged down his briefs.

What kind of underwear did Edward own?

Once, when they were still living happily together (but he wasn't thinking about that, no: it would only upset him and goddamit, he wanted an orgasm), Oswald had almost sneaked in Edward's room to get an answer to his compelling question. But it had seemed a little too creepy, even for him.

Maybe he wore simple and boring cotton briefs.

Oswald wrinkled his nose at the thought, fist closing around his shaft to stroke it in full hardness: it wasn't a sexy image at all.

Sheer panties would be better, pastel mint green ones with pretty bows that just would enhance how masculine and virile Edward was.

Or maybe he went commando - Edward's suit was slim fitting enough that wearing no underwear at all to avoid ruining its line could be a possibility.

But Oswald knew that Edward's skin was sensitive, he had paid close attention to how the other man always seemed to pick the softest fabrics: it would only make sense that he wore something sinfully delicate under his trousers.

Silky boxer briefs - yes, that would be it. Oswald could imagine rubbing himself against Edward, his cock dragging over the sleek silk warmed up by the other's erection still trapped in the expensive fabric getting irreparably stained by their precum.

Oswald's hand jerked out of rhythm, fingers conclusively squeezing around the sensitive and wet head "Oh, god"

"Not quite" his inner Edward voice piped up, sultry and almost growly inside of his head - possessive.

(He could worry later about being able to recall so clearly his enemy's voice, especially since it was coming in quite handy at the moment)

"E-Ed. Edward" Oswald sobbed behind the hand conveniently plastered over his mouth so that he could bite it, drown against his bony knuckles the moans he was so ashamed of voicing.

"Exactly, Oswald: it's me you belong to, not god"

He didn't - he really wished he did, but he didn't belong to Edward. Still, it was almost enough picturing in bright Technicolor the other man bent over him, their hips thrusting together, faster, harder, violet bruises blooming on pale bones, so desperate to get closer and higher, almost there..

"OH" Oswald shook as the endorphins washed over him, for a moment so lost in pleasure that his brain didn't even start to list all the reasons why he was fucked if he still was so hung up over the toxic green beanpole - he had time to panic about it before morning came and he had to slip back into his Penguin's shoes.


End file.
